But an hour later her thumb was still rubbing circles against her third finger and it was a long time before she slept.
'Bath night!' her father said when she got home from school the next day. He was in a good mood, smiling broadly as he shuffled together the ingredients for that night's dinner.
'Where's Mum?' Isabel asked.
'Shopping.' She had offended him. Isabel saw that in his one-word answer and the way he turned away from her, sliding some sliced onions into a pan of hot oil. He wanted her to share his enthusiasm, to talk about the bath. The onions sizzled angrily.
'So you got it plumbed in then.'
'Yes.' He turned back again. 'It cost fifty pounds -don't tell your mother. The plumber was here for two hours.' He smiled and blinked several times and Isabel was reminded of something she had once been told by the brother of a friend who went to Highgate. Her father was a very thin man with prematurely grey hair and a face that always seemed to be turned down. At school, his nickname was Grumpy. Why did boys have to be so cruel?
She reached out and squeezed his arm. 'That's great, Dad,' she said. 'I'll have a bath after dinner. What are you making?'
'Lasagne. Your mum's gone out to get some wine.'
It was a more pleasant evening. Isabel had got a part in her school play - Lady Montague in Romeo and Juliet. Susan had found a ten-pound note in the pocket of a jacket she hadn't worn for years. Jeremy had been asked to take a party of boys to Paris at the end of term. Good news oiled the machinery of the family and for once everything turned smoothly. After dinner, Isabel did half an hour's homework, kissed her parents goodnight and went upstairs. To the bathroom.
The bath was ready now. Installed. Permanent. The taps with the black H and C protruded over the rim with the curve of a vulture's neck. A silver plug on a heavy chain slanted into the plug-hole. Her father had polished the brasswork, giving it a new gleam. He had put the towels back on the rail and a green bath-mat on the floor. Everything back to normal. And yet the room, the towels, the bath-mat seemed to have shrunk. The bath was too big. And it was waiting for her. She still couldn't get the thought out of her mind.
'Isabel. Stop being silly…!'
What's the first sign of madness? Talking to yourself. And the second sign? Answering back. Isabel let out a great sigh of breath and went over to the bath. She leant in and pushed the plug into the hole. Downstairs, she could hear the television: World in Action, one of her father's favourite programmes. She reached out and turned on the hot tap, the metal squeaking slightly under her hand. Without pausing, she gave the cold tap a quarter turn. Now let's see if that plumber was worth his fifty quid.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, deep down underneath the floor, something rumbled. There was a rattling in the pipe that grew louder and louder as it rose up but there was still no water. Then the tap coughed, the cough of an old man, of a heavy smoker. A bubble appeared, to be broken a moment later by a spurt of liquid. Isabel looked down in dismay.
Whatever had been spat into the bath was not water. It was an ugly red, the colour of rust. The taps spluttered again and coughed out more of the thick, treacly stuff. It bounced off the bottom of the bath and splattered against the sides. Isabel was beginning to feel sick and before the taps could deliver a third load of - whatever it was - into the bath, she seized hold of them and locked them both shut. She could feel the pipes rattling beneath her hands but then it was done. The shuddering stopped. The rest of the liquid was swallowed back into the network of pipes.
But still it wasn't over. The bottom of the bath was coated with the liquid that now slid unwillingly towards the plug-hole which swallowed it greedily. Isabel looked more closely. Was she going mad or was there something inside the plug-hole? Isabel was sure she had put the plug in but now it was half-in and half-out of the hole and she could see below.
There was something. It was like a white ball, turning slowly, collapsing in on itself, glistening wet and alive. And it was rising, making for the surface…
Isabel cried out. At the same time she leant over and jammed the plug back into the hole. Her hand touched the red liquid and she recoiled, feeling it, warm and clinging, against her skin.
And that was enough. She reeled back, yanked a towel off the rail and rubbed it against her hand so hard that it hurt. Then she threw open the bathroom door and ran downstairs.
Her parents were still watching television.
'What's the matter with you?' Jeremy asked. Isabel had explained what had happened, the words tumbling over each other in their hurry to get out, but it was as if her father hadn't listened. 'There's always a bit of rust with a new bath,' he went on. 'It's in the pipes. Run the water for a few minutes and it'll go.'
'It wasn't rust,' Isabel said.
'Maybe the boiler's playing up again,' Susan muttered.
'It's not the boiler.' Jeremy frowned. He had bought it second-hand and it had always been a sore point - particularly when it broke down.
'It was horrible,' Isabel insisted. 'It was like…' What had it been like? Of course, she had known all along. 'Well, it was like blood. It was just like blood. And there was something else. Inside the plug.'
'Oh for heaven's sake!' Jeremy was irritated now, missing his programme.
'Come on! I'll come up with you…' Susan pushed a pile of Sunday newspapers off the sofa - she was still reading them even though this was Monday evening - and got to her feet.
'Where's the TV control?' Jeremy found it in the corner of his armchair and turned the volume up.
Isabel and her mother went upstairs, back into the bathroom. Isabel looked at the towel lying crumpled where she had left it. A white towel. She had wiped her hands on it. She was surprised to see there was no trace of a stain.
'What a lot of fuss over a teaspoon of rust!' Susan was leaning over the bath. Isabel stepped forward and peered in nervously. But it was true. There was a shallow puddle of water in the middle and a few grains of reddish rust. 'You know there's always a little rust in the system,' her mother went on. 'It's that stupid boiler of your father's.' She pulled out the plug. 'Nothing in there either!' Finally, she turned on the tap. Clean, ordinary water gushed out in a reassuring torrent. No rattling. No gurgles. Nothing. 'There you are. It's sorted itself out.'
Isabel hung back, leaning miserably against the sink. Her mother sighed. 'You were making it all up, weren't you?' she said - but her voice was affectionate, not angry.
'No, Mum.'
'It seems a long way to go to get out of having a bath.'
'I wasn't…!'
'Never mind now. Clean your teeth and go to bed.' Susan kissed her. 'Good-night, dear. Sleep well.'
But that night Isabel didn't sleep at all.
She didn't have a bath the following night either. Jeremy Harding was out - there was a staff meeting at the school - and Susan was trying out a new recipe for a dinner party the following week-end. She spent the whole evening in the kitchen.
Nor did Isabel have a bath on Wednesday. That was three days in a row and she was beginning to feel more than uncomfortable. She liked to be clean. That was her nature and as much as she tried flannelling herself using the sink, it wasn't the same. And it didn't help that her father had used the bath on Tuesday morning and her mother on Tuesday and Wednesday and neither of them had noticed anything wrong. It just made her feel more guilty - and dirtier.
Then on Thursday morning someone made a joke at school - something about rotten eggs - and as her cheeks burned, Isabel decided enough was enough. What was she so afraid of anyway? A sprinkling of rust which her imagination had turned into… something else. Susan Harding was out that evening - she was learning Italian at night school - so Isabel and her father sat down together for their evening meal.
At nine o'clock they went their separate ways - he to the news, she upstairs.
'Goodnight, Dad.'
'Goodnight, Is.'
It had been a nice, companionable evening.
And there was t
he bath, waiting for her. Yes. It was waiting, as if to receive her. But this time Isabel didn't hesitate. If she was as brisk and business-like as possible, she had decided, then nothing would happen. She simply wouldn't give her imagination time to play tricks on her. So without even thinking about it, she slipped the plug into the hole, turned on the taps and added a squirt of avocado bubble bath for good measure. She undressed (her clothes were a useful mask, stopping her seeing the water as it filled) and only when she was quite naked did she turn round and look at the bath. It was fine. She could just see the water, a pale avocado green beneath a thick layer -of foam. She stretched out her hand and felt the temperature. It was perfect: hot enough to steam up the mirror but not so hot as to scald. She turned off the taps. They dripped loudly as she remembered and went over to lock the door.
Yet still she hesitated. She was suddenly aware of her nakedness. It was as if she were in a room full of people. She shivered. 'You're being ridiculous,' she told herself. But still the question hung in the air with the steam from the water. It was like a nasty, unfunny riddle.
When are you at your most defenceless?
When you're naked, enclosed, lying on your back…
… in the bath.
'Ridiculous.' This time she actually said the word. And in one swift movement, a no-go-back decision, she got in.
The bath had tricked her - but she realized too late.
The water was not hot. It wasn't even warm. She had tested the temperature moments before. She had seen the steam rising. But the water was colder than anything Isabel had ever felt. It was like breaking through the ice on a pond on a midwinter's day. As she sank helplessly into the bath, felt the water slide over her legs and stomach, close in on her throat like a clamp, her breath was punched back and her heart seemed to stop in mid-beat. The cold hurt her. It cut into her. Isabel opened her mouth and screamed as loudly as she could. The sound was nothing more than a choked off whimper.
Isabel was being pulled under the water. Her neck hit the rim of the bath and slid down, her long hair floating away from her. The foam slid over her mouth, then over her nose. She tried to move but her arms and legs wouldn't obey the signals she sent them. Her bones had frozen. The room seemed to be getting dark.
But then, with one final effort, Isabel twisted round and threw herself up, over the edge. Water exploded everywhere, splashing down on to the floor. Then somehow she was lying down with foam all around her, sobbing and shivering, her skin completely white. She reached out and caught the corner of a towel, pulled it over her. Water trickled off her back and disappeared through the cracks in the floorboards.
Isabel lay like that for a long time. She had been scared… scared almost to death. But it wasn't just the change in the water that had done it. It wasn't just the bath itself- as ugly and menacing as it was. No. It was the sound she had heard as she heaved herself out and jack-knifed on to the floor. She had heard it inches away from her ear, in the bathroom, even though she was alone.
Somebody had laughed.
* * * *
'You don't believe me, do you?'
Isabel was standing at the bus-stop with Belinda Price; fat, reliable Belinda, always there when you needed her, her best friend. A week had passed and all the time it had built up inside her, what had happened in the bathroom, the story of the bath. But still Isabel had kept it to herself. Why? Because she was afraid of being laughed at? Because she was afraid no one would believe her? Because, simply, she was afraid. In that week she had done no work… at school or at home. She had been told off twice in class. Her clothes and her hair were in a state. Her eyes were dark with lack of sleep. But in the end she couldn't hold it back any more. She had told Belinda.
And now the other girl shrugged. 'I've heard of haunted houses,' she muttered. 'And haunted castles. I've eyen heard of a haunted car. But a haunted bath…?'
'It happened, just like I said.'
'Maybe you think it happened. If you think something hard enough it can often
'It wasn't my imagination,' Isabel interrupted.
Then the bus came and the two girls got on, showing their passes to the driver. They took their seats on the top deck, near the back. They always sat in the same place without quite knowing why.
'You can't keep coming round to my place,' Belinda said. 'I'm sorry, Bella, but my mum's beginning to ask what's going on.'
'I know.' Isabel sighed. She had managed to go round to Belinda's house three nights running and had showered there, grateful for the hot, rushing water. She had told her parents that she and Belinda were working on a project. But Belinda was right. It couldn't go on forever.
The bus reached the traffic lights and turned on to the main road. Belinda screwed up her face, deep in thought. All the teachers said how clever she was, not just because she worked hard but because she let you see it. 'You say the bath is an old one,' she said at last.
'Yes?'
'Do you know where your parents got it?'
Isabel thought back. 'Yes. It came from a place in Fulham. I've been there with them before.'
'Then why don't you go there and ask them about it? I mean, if it is haunted there must be a reason. There's always a reason, isn't there?'
'You mean… someone might have died in it or something?' The thought made Isabel shiver.
'Yes. My gran had a heart attack in the bath. It didn't kill her though…'
'You're right!' The bus was climbing up the hill now. Muswell Hill Broadway was straight ahead. Isabel gathered her things. 'I could go there on Saturday. Will you come too?'
'My mum and dad wouldn't let me.'
'You can tell them you're at my place. And I'll tell my parents I'm at yours.'
'What if they check?'
'They never do.' The thought made Isabel sad. Her parents never did wonder where she was, never seemed to worry about her. They were too wrapped up in themselves.
'Well… I don't know
'Please, Belinda. On Saturday. I'll give you a call.'
That night the bath played its worst trick yet.
Isabel hadn't wanted to have a bath. During dinner she'd made a point of telling her parents how tired she was, how she was looking forward to an early night. But her parents were tired too. They'd argued earlier in the evening… they were going to the cinema the following week-end and couldn't decide on the film. The atmosphere around the table had been distinctly jagged and Isabel found herself wondering just how much longer the family could stay together. Divorce. It was a horrible word, like an illness. Some of her friends had been off school for a week and then come back pale and miserable and had never been quite the same again. They'd caught it… divorce.
'Upstairs, young lady!' Her mother's voice broke into her thoughts. 'I think you'd better have a bath…'
'Not tonight, Mum.'
'Tonight. You've hardly used that bath since it was installed. What's the matter with you? Don't you like it?'
'No. I don't…'
That made her father twitch with annoyance. 'What's wrong with it?' he asked, sulking.
But before she could answer, her mother chipped in.
'It doesn't matter what's wrong with it. It's the only bath we've got so you're just going to have to get used to it.'
'I won't.'
Her parents looked at each other, momentarily helpless. Isabel realized that she had never defied them before - not like this. They were thrown. But then her mother stood up. 'Come on, Isabel,' she said. 'I've had enough of this stupidity. I'll come with you.'
And so the two of them went upstairs, Susan with that pinched, set look that meant she couldn't be argued with. But Isabel didn't argue with her. If her mother ran the bath, she would see for herself what was happening. She would see that something was wrong…
'Right…' Susan pushed the plug in and turned on the taps. Ordinary, hot, clear water gushed out. 'I really don't understand you, Isabel,' she exclaimed over the roar of the water. 'Maybe you've been staying up too late. I
thought it was only six-year-olds who didn't like having baths. There!' The bath was full. Susan tested the water, swirling it round with the tips of her fingers. 'Not too hot. Now let's see you get in.'
'Mum
'You're not shy in front of me, are you? For heavens sake…!'
Angry and humiliated, Isabel undressed in front of her mother, letting the clothes fall in a heap on the floor. Susan scooped them up again but said nothing. Isabel hooked one leg over the edge of the bath and let her toes come into contact with the water. It was hot - but not scalding. Certainly not icy cold.
'Is it all right?' her mother asked.
'Yes, Mum
Isabel got into the bath. The water rose hungrily to greet her. She could feel it close in a perfect circle around her neck. Her mother stood there a moment longer, holding her clothes. 'Can I leave you now?' she asked.
'Yes.' Isabel didn't want to be alone in the bath but she felt uncomfortable lying there with her mother hovering over her.
'Good.' Susan softened for a moment. 'I'll come and kiss you goodnight.' She held the clothes up and wrinkled her nose. 'These had better go in the wash too.'
Susan went.
Isabel lay there on her own in the hot water, trying to relax. But there was a knot in her stomach and her whole body was rigid, shying away from the cast-iron touch of the bath. She heard her mother going back down the stairs. The door of the utility room opened. Isabel turned her head slightly and for the first time caught sight of herself in the mirror. And this time she did scream.
And scream.
In the bath, everything was ordinary, just as her mother had left her. Clear water. Her flesh a little pink in the heat. Steam. But in the mirror, in the reflection…
The bathroom was a slaughterhouse. The liquid in the bath was crimson and Isabel was up to her neck in it. As her hand - her reflected hand - recoiled out of the water, the red liquid clung to it, dripping down heavily, splattering against the side of the bath and clinging there too. Isabel tried to lever herself out of the bath but slipped and fell, the water rising over her chin. It touched her lips and she screamed again, certain she would be sucked into it and die. She tore her eyes away from the mirror. Now it was just water. In the mirror…
The Puffin Book of Horror Stories Page 9
